Acid Test
by Francesca Wayland
Summary: Irene has built a successful life for herself in Montenegro when an unknown threat forces her into a difficult dilemma.


**Chapter 1: Put To The Test**

The late Irene Adler never slipped up. She never accidentally dropped her former given name when introducing herself, and she never turned her head when she heard either that or her long-used surname. In many ways she had discarded that identity like a husk of a chrysalis and fully metamorphosed into a new being – although she often thought that in her case it was the other way around. She had gone from the shimmering butterfly to the less conspicuous caterpillar. Well, she never did follow convention.

In the ways that mattered she was still that same woman. She still lived at the crossroads, in more ways than one: the town where she had settled was in Montenegro and exemplified Old European charm, but unlike the rest of the country to the north a significant portion of its population was Muslim. In this mixing of cultures she was able to dance back and forth between the two, and subvert and manipulate a much wider array of entrenched societal values. She spoke Montenegrin and was conversational in the Gheg dialect of Albanian, but she only spoke English during her sessions. She never shied away from exploiting any type of power dynamic, even the kind fabricated the fallacy of British Imperialism, but off the clock she rarely spoke English.

She flirted with danger and courted risk literally as well – with people who were the embodiment of those things. A private island resort an hour north drew a powerful and wealthy clientele from all over the world, and thanks to an association she'd cultivated with the senior concierge, it was exclusively her name that was shared with guests of a certain persuasion.

In a private joke that gave her an endless amount of amusement, she'd even continued to antagonise the British Royal Family from afar, by letting the concierge come under the impression that she was the illegitimate daughter of David Armstrong-Jones, the Queen's nephew with a wild-child past. The concierge had predictably spread the rumour, and it had done wonders for business when she'd first started out several years before.

All of this was her natural milieu, and what made her feel most alive. She no longer told herself the lie that stability and exorbitant wealth were things that she wanted, and with that breakthrough the avarice of Irene Adler had fallen away. Now she indulged in risk for risk's sake, for the pure thrill of it, and not for what perceived gains it would yield her.

The only tangible artefacte of that former self was her connection with Mr Sherlock Holmes; no amount of compartmentalising her previous life would allow that (very lively) ghost to stay buried in that past. He had been both the destruction of that identity, and, in a way, its redemption.

She couldn't bring herself to regret what she had done as Irene Adler, despite how it had almost resulted in her demise. The fallout of that had led her to a deeper understanding of who she was and what she wanted, and with that insight she'd forged a custom-made new life. It was one she'd come to enjoy with a simple appreciation she'd never felt before. She missed London, but it was more for the fact that it was something _denied_ to her, than how much she cared for the place itself.

Sherlock was her link to all of that, and all of that was a link back to Sherlock. He was the one constant that bridged her past and her present. As for her future, Irene no longer invested energy thinking about that, because for the most part she'd left Irene Adler behind, along with Irene Adler's naked, boundless ambition.

Or so she'd thought.

* * *

The woman formerly known as The Woman was making her way the mile up a winding street from the Ladies Beach where she swam daily, to her flat in a modern complex at the prow of the hill above, when a familiar scent drifted by on a breeze.

It caught her off-guard at once as sentiment and nostalgia flooded through her, and her heart began stammering in her chest. Her stride barely faltered, but she had stopped noticing the figures around her, the sound of footsteps on cobblestone, and the shadows of clouds passing across the walkway. Only the call of seagulls and the scent of saline air intermingled with a faint masculine scent – Sherlock's shower gel brand, or one like it – remained, as she was transported back to a small sunlit room many years before. It had been one of a handful of times Sherlock and Irene had been able to meet during his work destroying Moriarty's remaining vestiges of power.

After her bracing morning swim she felt both invigorated and relaxed, and with her body feeling so satisfyingly exerted, she allowed herself to be carried along the tide of sentiment that scent had evoked, and reminisce.

Their time together during his 'hiatus,' as he'd called it, had deepened their bond beyond anything that Irene had believed possible. They had proven to each other – but moreover to themselves – that what they'd experienced after Karachi hadn't just been a fluke forged from adrenaline and the euphoria of such a daring and dangerous escape.

Working together had been intoxicating, with Irene functioning as the architect behind many a strategy and Sherlock providing the technical and logistical expertise to bring her concepts to life. Then 'on the ground' they worked together using her intuition and instincts and his ability to observe to pull off the job, and there had been some close calls but zero failures. The way their skills had so seamlessly fitted together along with the intimacy they'd shared, had intractably woven Sherlock into the core of Irene's self. She let herself believe that the time had been as meaningful and transformative to Sherlock as it had been for her.

Living separate lives had been difficult in the aftermath of that, but she had come to appreciate it. Because of the intensity of their connection, the depths they had come to rely on each other, the intimacy of their physical relationship, and the simpatico of their personalities and skills, the pendulum could easily swing the other way and leave them hopelessly co-dependent. The way she had found herself grieving his absence when he'd returned to life the way others had mourned him after he'd jumped form that ledge put that danger into stark relief.

As for Sherlock, during The Hiatus he had once talked about not going back – right in the middle of sex. But it had been fantasy; it wasn't something either of them wanted, not really. For them to remain their whole selves and not succumb to the temptations of co-dependence, they must hold each other at arms' lengths.

This arrangement suited both of them, for the most part.

There were days, even weeks, when she wouldn't think about him, but for the most part something reminded her of him on a daily basis, and she'd smile. It was a smile reserved only for him, and it was untouched by irony, cruel amusement, or derision. He received all those from her in healthy doses as well, but this one – the one that reached her eyes and warmed something within her while it transformed her face – was for Sherlock alone.

Sometimes in times of exhaustion, a rare sense of loneliness, or other states of vulnerability (anniversaries of certain things, though she would never allow herself to dwell on that for more than several seconds), she would even find herself composing long emails to him.

They were unforgivably self-indulgent and initially she'd deleted them, but lately she had taken to saving them in an encrypted folder under unobtrusive file names, like someone else might hide their shameful porn collection. She didn't let herself think too closely about why she was no longer deleting them. There were many things about her relationship that she didn't allow herself to analyse too closely, but that didn't stop her from feeling them deeply.

Writing the emails made her feel closer to him, but it didn't stop her from occasionally wondering what Sherlock was doing in a given moment, a little over a thousand miles to the northwest and in a very different world. She wasn't the greatest fan of John Watson himself, but she did appreciate the role he played in Sherlock's life and she certainly valued his blog, which he had recently resumed updating. She hoarded those glimpses of Sherlock in his element the way she had previously done with the scandals of powerful people and the secrets of State.

It was an unfair balance tilted in her favour to know so much about his life, when he knew so little about hers, but she relished that and wanted to maintain it. Even apart she must always remain slightly vigilant of giving over to her sentiment entirely, and she had to exert discretion and control where she could against something that was so unfathomable and powerful.

Besides – when she mentioned staying up-to-date about the posts he'd always roll his eyes and make a show of being disgruntled, but she could tell he was pleased.

Indulging in the memories usually came with a price. They were accompanied by a twinge of sadness from the undercurrent of belief that she and Sherlock would never recapture that again, they would never be together that way again – that their best times, her happiest times, were behind them. Whenever they did reunite those feelings were washed away and they were able to pick up where they'd left off, with the additional shine of the thrill of being reunited, but when she was away from him doubt crept always in again. It was doubt in her own ability to continue to love him just as much as it was doubt in his ability to continue to love her, if not moreso.

But now, feeling at peace and content, the memories didn't contain any of that subtle bitter-sweetness, and she allowed them to meander into fantasy. What she would do to him when she saw him next, how she would toy with him, first verbally and then physically; what he would manage to figure out she liked this time, how he would look at her and she'd watch the way his natural arrogance was subsumed by the humility and awe he felt before her…

All too soon she reached her whitewashed, art-deco inspired multi-terraced apartment complex and pushed her salt-water slicked hair away from her face to punch in the doorcode at the front gate.

Before the lock released, black words scrolled across the desaturated green screen.

 _WELCOME HOME 4C_

The corner of her mouth turned up in mild amusement. Apparently her doorman Ditmir had finally gotten his way and had had the electronic security system updated, although the delay between the greeting and entry might become tiresome.

But because the late Irene Adler never slipped up, never accidentally dropped her former first name when someone asked in a casual situation, and never turned her head when she heard either that or her long-used surname, it took a moment for her to realise what she was seeing next as the greeting continued to scroll, and for those words to make blood run cold.

 _IRENE ADLER_

And then all at once naked, nauseating fear swept through her, almost buckling her knees. It was terror she hadn't felt for so long, and her swimming goggles fell to the ground from nerveless fingers as she felt her breath seize in her chest. Through tunnelled vision she saw the words hadn't been rendered in writing for years. They had only been spoken, and by only one person, so that they had almost become a password to intimacy and contentedness.

Now they induced nothing but panic.

She would have to run again. She had finally, _finally_ settled into a satisfying life, and now she would have to start all over again. Yet even if she did, if they could find her here, what would stop them from tracking her down anywhere else? Despair – and worse, a sense of helplessness – took hold of her.  
Then she thought of the scent she had caught on the cold Adriatic breeze, and how the only sliver of her former self that she clung to was her connection with one Mr Sherlock Holmes. Only he knew that Irene Adler wasn't truly dead – just reincarnated. Only Sherlock had proven that he could find her again and again, as if she drew him to her by preternatural force.

Had that scent not been a coincidence, but a hint of who had walked that road only moments before her?

The swooping sensation in her stomach switched from a heightened fear response to one of anticipation, lust, and ( _damn it_ ), nerves.

This _was_ so very Sherlock. It wasn't enough for him to determine her location and show up there – he always had to add a bit of dramatic flair to the reveal.

The fear abated, and was replaced with delight. She even let out a soft chuckle as she tilted her head to look through the bars of the gate, waiting for him to step out from behind some corner with his hands clasped behind his back, the look of mischief, self-satisfaction, and hope for her approval on his face that she knew so well.

Sherlock didn't appear and Irene pushed on the gate, but it didn't give. She glanced at the screen again, wondering if he were planning to lead her through some sort of game to win entrance back into her complex, or send her on a 'treasure hunt' in which he was the prize at the end.

The goggles lay un-retrieved as an excitement that was unique to Sherlock bubbled through her. It was important for both Irene and Sherlock to maintain independent lives for their own sakes, but it was the moments of reunion like this that allowed her to actually enjoy that fact.

But that fizzing sensation corroded into acid as words continued to scroll, emotionless and stark on the console in front of her.

 _HE LOVES YOU_

Again her emotions inverted, but the feeling of fear was tenfold.

Someone – not Sherlock – knew who she had been. Knew even _more_ than Sherlock because they were aware of her current location and not only that, they had the skill and boldness to contact her like this – to _play_ with her like this. They also struck her now, when she was most vulnerable, wearing only a swimsuit, track bottoms, and trainers. This suggested that whoever it was, was familiar with her morning routine, meaning that she had been under watch, and she'd become so complacent that she hadn't noticed.

At least she could run, but as much as she wanted to she couldn't bolt yet. She had to ascertain as much as she could about this threat before she attempted to disappear again.

She raised her chin. "Who?" Her voice did not betray her fear. "I'm sorry, you'll have to be more specific; that could apply to anyone."

 _WSS HOLMES 221B BAKER STREET LONDON NW1 6XE_

There was a pause as she stared, adrenaline pumping hard throughout her body and sapping every last trace of relaxation and well-being she'd felt moments before.

 _WHAT DO *YOU* LOVE_

Not who, _what_ , she noted somewhere in the chaos of her speeding, whirling thoughts. It was an overt contrast to what the screen had said about Sherlock. She detached, immediately going into survival mode in the face of this sudden threat.

"My privacy," she retorted, her voice still sounding cold. "Solitude."

The words blinked off, leaving the screen a blank flat green for a moment.

Irene pushed on the gate again, even though she knew it was still locked – she would have heard it release. Even if she could get in, the sanctuary it provided would be meaningless now that she was compromised.

 _EVERYONE HAS A PRICE._

 _EVEN RENEE WOLFE._

Her initial instinct was to contact Sherlock at once, but she suddenly didn't even trust any channel of communication they'd previously used. What kind of access did this individual have?

"A price for what?" she couldn't help but ask, her curiosity getting the better of her even now.

 _GET SHERLOCK HOLMES OUT OF LONDON_

Irene stared, her mind racing as fast as her heartbeat. Was something about to happen in London, something in which Sherlock could possibly interfere? Or worse, did this nameless, faceless threat want to remove Sherlock from his home court and out of the watchful protection of John Watson and Mycroft Holmes?

 _THIS CAN MEAN YOUR GREATEST WINDFALL. OR YOUR DOWNFALL_

 _THE CARESS OR THE WHIP MS ADLER_

At that the lock buzzed open, and she quelled her desire to race to her flat and managed a stiff, composed pace.

When she made it inside she saw at once that her laptop was on and its screen illuminated, indicating that someone had been using it only moments before. Whether or not it was in person or remotely she couldn't tell, but her skin prickled and chilled as if the invasion had been literal.

Her eyes wide and darting, she slid over to her safe and accessed the weapon she'd manipulated one of her clients into giving her. Then she stalked through the apartment, checking every possible hiding place as well as all the window locks. Nothing else appeared amiss.

Only after that did she return to her living room and allow herself a glance at her laptop. To her horror all the emails she had ever composed to Sherlock were open in tiled rows on the screen, and the sight made her feel instantly and infinitely more vulnerable, as if her chest had been sliced open and her heart exposed to this unseen threat.

Another Word document was open over all of them, with its cursor flashing at the end of one sentence:

 _Everyone has a price. We already know what Irene Adler's price was to betray Sherlock Holmes. What is Renée Wolfe's price?_

She slammed the laptop shut as she started to breathe hard. She hadn't seen any sign of a break-in, but that was no consolation. She, who had always been like the spider at the centre of a web of protection, so attuned to the slightest vibration in her carefully constructed habitat, had become unforgivably complacent in this new life.

How could she not have grasped the danger she was in before this person made such bold contact with her? What if this unseen force, who seemed to know so much already, also knew all the resources she had secreted away through the years, in case she ever needed to escape again? Would any possible escape be cut off at the knees?

Her pulse throbbing inside her tight throat, she gingerly reopened her laptop and after a series of navigating encrypted portals she accessed her Cayman Islands bank account.

Rather than being depleted as she'd half-feared, there were several more zeroes in the pending balance. She blinked and for the second time in five minutes, her knees almost buckled.

 _Is this price high enough for Renee Wolfe?_ was the OBI memo.

" _No,_ " she said aloud, and this time her vehemence and the hoarseness in her voice took her aback. "There is no such number."

This person had presumably already read her emails to Sherlock, emails to which Sherlock himself hadn't even been privy, so there was no point in concealing the sentiment she had for him.

A moment later she stared in disbelief as the number changed again, right before her eyes. Instead of reverting to her previous balance or to a zero balance, another zero was added. It was more – much, much more – than the amount for which she had blackmailed the British Government.

This time the OBI read "Your challenge is accepted."

The balance couldn't be genuine, it had to be a trick. She already knew that her laptop had been hacked, so she must have been rerouted to a site that mirrored her account and made it seem like her balance had increased over 4,000%. Because Moriarty was dead – Sherlock had been adamant and she believed him – and who else would have this much power and wealth to put towards a grudge against Sherlock? Who else could've figured out that she was still alive, and who else would know to use her as a pawn to harm Sherlock?

Whoever it was, they seemed to be just as powerful as Moriarty and therefore just as much of a threat to her. She didn't want to resign herself to fear, and she didn't want to give in to this person's demands, but safety was still of premier importance to her and self-preservation was more important to her than any sum, even if it _were_ real.

Her phone vibrated, and when she saw that it was from a blocked number she had to force herself to answer it and raise the phone to her ear with a trembling hand.

"Still not convinced?" came the synthetic male voice of British Siri. Despite being spoken, the words were as emotionless and uninflected as those that had scrolled across the security pad. Something inside her, which not even the icy Adriatic where she'd been swimming had been able to chill, went icy cold.

She didn't answer, and the voice went on.

"There was a particular man whom you feared in London. A powerful man, who to this day is one of the main impediments to you returning there. You know of whom I speak. A man who was one of your most lucrative clients but then became one of your most formidable threats, second only to James Moriarty."

"Do you work for him?"

"On the contrary. Watch the British news over the next 24 hours. You'll know what's meant for you when you see it. Consider it a gesture of goodwill for our future collaboration."

Irene jabbed at the speaker icon to end the call, her heart hammering even more wildly, and then started peeling off layers. She dressed again in dark, unencumbering clothes, dropped to her knees to grab the keep-all where she kept her essentials out from beneath the bed, secured her gun in its case and added that to the bag, then bolted from the door.

The sense of paranoia that had haunted her every step after she'd previously gone on the run was returning with a vengeance, so that although she knew that Ulcijn didn't have the network of CC cameras that a city like London did, she still felt her skin prickling as though she were being watched, and hunted. She expected at any moment to be shot or stopped by a figure jolting out at her from behind a tree or building, but no one appeared. Yet as sickening as the sensation was, she never should've let go of this distrustfulness. Dropping her guard, growing too self-confident, were the only ways someone could have found her again.

She caught a taxi from the stand in the centre of town and offered the driver twice the amount her journey cost in cash in exchange for turning of the meter and GPS. Usually when Irene wanted to get out of Ulcijn she would retreat to the island resort that directed the majority of her clientele to her, where the concierge would put her up on a small and discreet room, but she couldn't trust that the concierge there wasn't the one who had lead this unknown threat to her. Instead of north, they drove northeast, to Skadar Lake. There she would find someone to take her across to Albania.

The following day, exhausted from lack of sleep and overexerted from nonstop hyper-vigilance, Irene was scrolling through the headlines of the major British news syndicates in an internet café in Korçë, Albania. It took her several sites to find it, and she was beginning to think that whatever 'it' was hadn't happened yet, when she spotted it on the Guardian's website.

What she saw changed everything, and another dose of adrenaline jolted her to full alertness.

The man the voice on the phone had mentioned was dead. Someone had murdered the person most hellbent on killing her after she'd lost her leverage against him when Sherlock had cracked her passcode – someone who also happened to be one of the most powerful and protected oligarchs in the world.

This wasn't a gesture of goodwill at all, not that she'd believed that. It was a display of reach and power. It had caused her to dismiss a number of theories she'd devised in the past day about who could be behind this and to what end, because those theories had depended on the perpetrator having either the reach _or_ the amorality – but not both. The only person who'd had both, Jim, _was dead_.

Irene was a pragmatist at heart. Only once had she let emotion interfere, but she had already made one mistake again in getting too comfortable; she would not make another in letting her own sentiments get in the way of her safety.

It wasn't the perceived reward that made her reassess her decision not to give in – it was the implicit threat and the obvious power that backed it up.

Summoning Sherlock to Ulcinj would mean she wouldn't have to run. She wouldn't have to start from scratch again, well into her thirties this time. She refused to cede this life she had made for herself, and she refused to put herself in the crosshairs of this unseen force. The balance in her Cayman Islands account, if it were real, would be a bonus.

She would do what they asked; she would get Sherlock to leave London. If she called, he would come. It would be the easiest thing in the world.

* * *

 **Thanks for reading! Comments are cherished by this writer :)**


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